


From the Watcher's Diaries, 1765

by fizzyblogic (phizzle)



Category: All-American Rejects, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Fandom Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-19
Updated: 2008-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kim's the Slayer, Tyson's her Watcher. Set in the same universe as Every Night I Save You.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Watcher's Diaries, 1765

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Every Night I Save You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/68831) by [fizzyblogic (phizzle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic). 



**Extracts From The Official Diary Of Mr Ritter**

_17th April, 1764_

The curate's daughter, Miss Smith, has been called.

I wrote to Donaldson, told him how sorry I was about Miss Heather. The Council delivered my orders, I packed my things and came here. The parish is pleasant, the curate perfectly willing to give his daughter to do God's work, and the child herself … she is a curious girl. She speaks of God's will and might as though she had listened to all of Reverend Saul's lectures, and though she speaks it mostly by rote, I see that it is in her heart. She has faith in this fight, the fight against evil. That is a powerful tool for a Slayer.

We will begin training tomorrow. I do not know how much work is to be done here; my orders are to bring her to London once her initial training is complete. It should not take too much time to prepare her – at the least, she should be well settled in town before the trial. She is not yet seventeen summers, though strong and willing. Yes, this should not take too much time.

  
_20th April_

Tonight was Miss Smith's first patrol. She insists I call her Miss Kimberley, her older sister is Miss Smith, but she is my sole charge and her safety is of the utmost importance so to me, she is Miss Smith.

The patrol resulted in one encounter with a vampire, which she bested after several minutes of struggle. It tried to take her from behind, but we have been honing her instincts and she turned quickly and drove the stake through its heart. To be truthful, she already listened to her instincts; I simply had to show her how to act upon them with sufficient speed.

We may begin with more complicated weapons as early as next week. Miss Smith is a most gifted Slayer, an asset to this fight and to the Council.

  
_28th April_

Miss Smith today mastered the crossbow. She shows considerable skill with every weapon I train her to use, extraordinary physical agility and she can now identify a vampire on sight. I have made a full report to the Council and expect orders to bring her to London at the earliest opportunity. I have spoken with the child's parents, and they are agreeable. We are needed in town.

~*~

_24th June, 1765_

Last night our patrol took us across the river again. There is a menace in the streets, a vampire we cannot find. Its victims appear with neck wounds and no signs of a struggle otherwise, always mere yards from their own front doors. There is no connection between the victims that we can discern, no pattern to the killings, but the puzzling thing is that there is no geographical pattern to speak of. In the usual course of things, a vampire will make random killings, but it will stay in the same region, it will choose easy victims close to its home. If this vampire is doing so, its home moves daily.

I suggested to Miss Smith that perhaps it is more than one vampire, perhaps these killings are indeed random. She tells me her instincts are screaming that it is the same one, that she knows it is somewhere nearby. She thinks it is tracking her, feels as though she is being watched. I have, I must admit, suffered similar feelings in the past few weeks. We are being observed. We are being toyed with, as a cat toys with a mouse. We must be sure to kill the cat.

  
_5th July_

Heat is upon the city. The days are longer, which means Miss Smith has more time to rest. She sleeps during daylight hours, as they do, in order to walk in their footsteps. She is an extraordinary young lady and a dedicated Slayer. This is how she survives encounters such as the one we returned from this morning.

My hands are still shaking. You will have to forgive the writing, whoever is reading this in years to come. Tonight, this morning – time seems such a strange concept with so little sleep to guide me – we were met by the vampire. The cat that has been playing with us. Tonight, it batted its paw at Miss Smith.

He gave his name as Mr Beckett. He is tall, thin, dresses in the fashionable clothes of the day yet brings unfashionable touches that speak of his age. I would estimate this as a century, possibly a little less. He is clearly a gentleman, clearly well-travelled, and clearly back in England for a reason.

He was in China last. I could tell by the way he pronounced certain words that he had recently been there, and a scarf half hidden in his waistcoat confirmed my suspicions. He spoke of Paris, of the colonies, of the East India Trading Company. He told us that he wants to see the New World next, but before he leaves the old world for the new, he wants to kill the Slayer.

That is why he is here. I suspect he found us quickly, that news of the last Slayer's death has spread, that this Mr Beckett wishes to achieve glory by killing Miss Smith. However, he shall not succeed. We shall prepare, we shall fight, and my Slayer shall win.

  
_9th July_

We have not heard from our friend Mr Beckett in days. I have been searching through the newspapers, but have not found any more news of attacks; it seems as though he has left.

Miss Smith knows he has not. I know it too. Even I can sense his presence now, a malevolent force in the city. Hiding. Watching. Waiting.

We must find where he is hiding, and do it quickly.

  
_14th July_

All is lost, all is lost, Mr Beckett has my Slayer.

  
_16th July_

The account I give now is not Miss Smith's final battle. It is not Mr Ritter's final battle. Alas, it is not Mr Beckett's. It is his last on these shores, his last with the two of us, but he survives. Beware, New World. Beware.

Miss Smith and I discovered Mr Beckett's hiding place three nights ago. Unlike the majority of his kind, he seems to enjoy splendour, and to live above ground. He … he taunted the sunlight, claimed that it cannot harm him; my Slayer proved him wrong on that score. I am getting ahead of myself.

He was waiting. He ambushed us, knocked me unconscious and took her. I awoke outside, later, with a note tucked into my pocket – I need not detail what the note read, suffice it to say that it was a threat to my Slayer's life. I returned to his rooms, but he was gone.

I stumbled home, called the doctor, and wept. I am not ashamed of the weeping; Miss Smith is my Slayer, my charge, it is my sole calling and employment to protect her. I failed.

The doctor ordered me to stay indoors and in bed for at the least a day. I obeyed his orders as I could. Which is to say that I … did not obey them. I prepared myself, gathered my weapons, rested a little, and set out to find him again.

Yesterday, I discovered his new hiding place. I took my weapons, I burst in, and I found there three victims, two of whom had already become vampires themselves and the other on its way to awakening; the first was an easy kill, the other two had me cornered. I was using a sword, the bag containing the other weapons at my feet, and I heard laughter.

It was Mr Beckett. "She said you would come. I did not believe her. Yet I see that you are, indeed, as brave as she believes you to be." He paused, watching as I fought his sirelings. I did not have enough room to swing the sword, and did not have the chance to reach for the stake in my pocket. "She is still alive. I am sure you know it. I never intended her death to be … quick." He spoke that last word with such a smile that I filled with rage, knowing that she was being kept somewhere – I could feel her, somewhere close, alive still but injured, perhaps, or worse.

The two vampires I was fighting were strong, fast, precise. One of them sprained my wrist, but as he did so I saw an opportunity and grasped for my stake; I killed his friend, and then swung the sword and severed head from neck.

Mr Beckett applauded. He approached, slowly, step by step, speaking low and menacing. "You are persistent. I do like to see that in a Watcher. So much passion, so much fire, so much hate. You burn with it, with hatred for our kind. But you need not revile us, Watcher." He had come to stand a few feet away from me by this point, I nursing my injured wrist and calculating how to get past him and to Miss Smith in time. "When I am finished with your Slayer, she will make you one of us, and you shall wreak chaos and bloodshed as the best of my children." He sounded proud.

"I will shed no innocent blood," I told him. I knew I must reach for a weapon; I knew that if I did, I would be dead before I could pick up the bag. I strike with the right hand, and it was my right wrist the vampire had injured; however, I still had the sword in my left.

Beckett took another two steps closer. "We shall see," he said, and I drove the sword through his chest as hard and as quickly as possible.

It saved time to leave it in there, so I took the bag and ran for the stairs. He had been standing in front of them as though unwilling to let me pass, so I knew my Slayer would be up them. It took me moments to find her, while Beckett screamed in the room below – the sword was enchanted and brings intense pain to any demon it pierces.

Miss Smith was not in a pleasant state. The vampire had obviously been torturing her, the details of which I would rather I cast from my mind than set down in writing. The deepest wounds may leave their mark, but the rest are healing. I untied her, and she regained consciousness – I made to carry her, but she stood, said she felt ready to fight. "Are you quite sure?" I asked her. Her eye was swollen; such a small detail, but for some reason I could not take my eyes from the bruises. "What has he done to you?"

She flinched away from my administrations and insisted, "I will fight. I am the Slayer, Ritter, I have to." Reluctantly, I handed her my bag of weapons, and as she was looking through it – Beckett's footsteps had begun pounding up the stairs – she told me to get out.

"I am not leaving you." I wanted to grip her arm, make some form of contact, to assure myself she was really there, really alive.

"In the room next door is a man," she told me quickly, voice low. "He is still alive, Beckett wasn't finished with him yet. Take him, see that he lives." I tried to protest, but she hissed, "_Now_, Ritter. Find him. Take him. _Save him_." The door burst in and she continued, "Beckett is mine."

Beckett was smiling, the blood-stained sword in one hand. "I have been praying you would say that."

"Praying? To whom? It is not God you pray to." With an agility that should not have been possible in her weakened state, Miss Smith spun and lunged forward, dodging Beckett's blows, and snatched the sword out of his hand. "I believe this is my Watcher's." She threw it to me. "Go. _Now_."

I caught the sword and made sure to graze Beckett's side and slash at his arm with it as I left the room. He screamed again, charging at Miss Smith, and I searched for the right door.

The first room I looked in held only a fresh body; not a new vampire, just a new victim. The second, however, contained a man chained to the wall. His skin was covered in welts, bruises and wounds, and he was barely alive. He raised his head, looked at me, and tried to speak; his lips were dry and cracked, caked in blood, and he coughed before asking, "Are you here to kill me?"

"No," I answered, "I am here to help you. I will return momentarily." I ducked back into the room where Beckett and Miss Smith were fighting; she was kicking him in the neck when I ran in. I yelled, "Axe?" and she took it from the bag and tossed it to me with one smooth movement, simultaneously yanking the wooden slats off the windows with the other hand. Beckett hissed and tried to move away from the sunlight, but my Slayer kicked him further into it. I did not stay to see more.

It took many swings of the axe, but the chains broke and the man dropped to the floor. He struggled to speak once more, managed, "Thank … you," and then closed his eyes.

"No," I whispered to him, "you will _not_ die." He seemed light when I lifted him; the sword I sheathed in my belt, the axe I held underneath his body, making sure to keep the blade turned away from him. I looked into the other room again. "Miss Smith," I called.

She saw me, swung at Beckett with the larger axe in her hand, and her face plainly said _Do as I told you and take him to help_. I nodded, and ran as quickly as I could out of there. Another vampire tried to stop my escape, but I kicked him away, placed the man carefully down, beheaded the vampire with the axe, lifted the man back into my arms, and made my way out.

I returned to our rooms with haste, sent for the doctor, and set the servants to work caring for the unconscious man. I ran back to Beckett's rooms to aid Miss Smith in any way I could, but by the time I got there the building was ablaze. She raced out of it just as I arrived.

We know Beckett escaped the fire, though we do not know how. He was sighted that evening gaining passage to the New World on a ship, and by now I have no doubt he is upon the sea, the New World before him, the old one behind.

The man he was keeping there lived. My Slayer lived. I lived. We have been graced indeed with luck.

**The Very Private Diary Of Mr Tyson Ritter: Watcher, Scholar, Man**

_28th July, 1765_

I begin this diary in secret, in code, and by necessity. I shall destroy it at the slightest threat to what I must conceal within these pages.

I am falling in love with another man.

Even to write the words, in these strange symbols that shroud the meaning to all eyes but mine, it is unbelievable. Yet it is the truth; I care for another man. I do not think that he cares for me. I know he enjoys my company, seeks out my friendship, though I suspect perhaps a little of it is the debt of gratitude he owes me. I saved his life; his life feels bound to me.

Yet I cannot shake the feeling that his life was bound to me before this, that I had been waiting for many years to meet this man. It is a notion that cannot be, and yet it is. It is. I know what I feel, how it pulls at me when I look into his eyes.

His name is Mr Wheeler. We rescued him from a formidable vampire twelve days ago; it was his house the vampire had taken over, keeping him alive for reasons known only to itself, and Miss Smith burned the place to the ground. Mr Wheeler has not the money to buy a new house, is still recovering from his injuries, and as such he lives here with us as our guest and as my friend.

It is awful to see him suffer like this. The vampire was cruel, unusually so perhaps, and Mr Wheeler's injuries are extensive. The doctors say he will live, that he will recover health once more with enough care and rest, and I know I can provide both. He may never regain full use of his left leg; it is likely he will walk with a limp and require the aid of a cane for the remainder of his life. He has expressed dismay over this; he loved to ride, to hunt once a year and especially to take walks by the river; but each time he speaks of his regret I speak only of my gladness that he is alive.

It is … incredible, this gladness. I could kiss the world, wear my knees out thanking God for Mr Wheeler's good fortune, sing and cry out with joy because _he is alive_. His body is bruised and a little broken, but it is mending. His spirit is mending, I can see it day by day. He has nothing, he says, nothing left in this world.

I maintain that he has us. He has Miss Smith, he has a home should he be in need of one – and he has me.

He looks at me, when I say that. "You have me," I say, and he looks at me and his smile is soft.

"Yes," he replies, voice as soft as his smile. "I have you."

My heart is breaking. He is the most handsome man I have seen in my life, despite the injuries. The bruises, the wounds, the cuts and grazes, they cannot hide his beauty. For he is beautiful, as flowers are beautiful, as the river at sunset is beautiful. His eyes change colour like a gem stone, his hands are strong, and his mouth is a perfect cupid's bow. He lights rooms with his smile, his laugh sends my head into a spin, his voice sets my blood on fire.

He is, I am almost sure of it, falling in love with Miss Smith.

I discourage it as much as I decently can. She takes it as protectiveness and gives me silent thanks for it; she does not love him, she has spoken to me of it. She is fond of him, thinks him a good man and good company, but no more. That is my one relief; that his love is not returned. It is not much relief, for it means that he suffers all the more; that as his body suffers, so does his heart.

Mine suffers agonies. The longer he is in this house, the longer he shares our rooms and our meals, the deeper my feelings for him. I care for him as well as I can, make sure that the doctors call regularly and that his every desire is fulfilled – at the least, the needs of his body, of his –

I wish, so very hard, that I might fulfil other desires. That the needs of his body would extend one day – that he, with healthy limbs and no more need of my care – that he might _ask_ for my care. That he might desire me. Desire me not as a nurse, not as simply a companion; that he might desire me as I desire him, as a lover, as a companion in life, as – I wish for it. I write this in code, I hope to God nobody finds it, and I wish for him.

The worst of it is that I feel no remorse. I know that I should, I should be ashamed of these feelings, I should pray for a release from this unnaturalness. Yet it does not feel unnatural. I know what is not natural, I fight and train my Slayer to defeat what is an abomination to nature every day and every night of my life. I know the feel and the taste and the smell of what is not natural, and these feelings I have for Mr Wheeler, my love for him – it tastes as natural as ripe strawberries. It feels as natural as sunlight, smells as natural as fresh earth after the rain. He is all that is natural to me.

Instead of praying for forgiveness for my sins, I pray that he will heal and yet need me. Instead of seeking penance, I seek his heart. I have already given mine to him.

  
_15th October_

Mr Wheeler is not in love with Miss Smith.

I felt so much relief when he told me this that I had to excuse myself and lock the door, to come in here and release my emotion. Mr Wheeler is not in love with Miss Smith! He is not going to propose to her! I have been so worried, so torn inside with it, for weeks now. Yet he is not! Oh, what happiness this is!

I did not mean to ask, after breakfast this morning. Miss Smith had excused herself to rest; last night she fought five vampires at once, I believe she needs a little time to recuperate. The way he smiled at her as she left the room gave me such a pang that I could not stop myself. I asked, as though I had no control over the words leaving my mouth, "Do you love Miss Smith?"

He looked startled. "I am … fond of her, Mr Ritter. But love, of the kind I think you are speaking of – no, Mr Ritter, I do not. I am very sorry if I have somehow misled you, or Miss Smith, by action or word or look. She does not believe it, does she?"

"I do not believe she does," I answered, barely containing the sheer force of emotion turning over and over in my chest. "Is there – was there ever a Mrs Wheeler? I did not feel it proper that I ask before now, and if I am overstepping the bounds of our friendship please –"

"Not at all," he interrupted me. "I have hopes that our intimacy has grown such that I may be candid with you on this subject – that there is no woman I love."

This was the moment I needed to excuse myself, for if I had stayed there may have been consequences. I wanted so much to tell him, to make some motion or say some word that might indicate my feelings towards him without leaving no chance for return.

I have had my moment, and must not linger here lest he grow concerned.

  
_16th November_

Mr Wheeler is almost fully healed. He has some money for a new house, and shall soon take his leave of us.

I have thrown myself into training my Slayer. The Council have sent word that a demon has arrived on our shores and will no doubt soon begin a massacre. It is sure to happen here.

Mr Wheeler is leaving. I am almost glad there is an impending massacre to prevent.

  
_25th November_

The demon is dead. I have written my full account of the battle in my official diary, I have no more strength to write of it. Miss Smith is injured, but alive. She will recover.

Mr Wheeler has some skill in healing wounds. We did not need to call for the doctor this time; Mr Wheeler has knowledge, experience, was a doctor in a parish in the north, and knows enough of the healing powers of the Slayer to adapt medicine methods to her needs.

I have asked him to consider staying here. He said he would indeed consider it. If he does not continue living here with us, he has made it clear that we may call on him as needed, that he wishes to continue our friendship, our … intimacy.

He uses that word to describe our friendship, he and I. He calls it our intimacy. He cannot know what I long for, what I _yearn_ for with all my heart and soul.

He still cannot walk. He has a cane, and moves about the house with my help and Miss Smith's and that of the servants. It will not be long before he can walk with only the cane. Then he shall most likely leave, and our _intimacy_ will continue from further afar.

  
_19th December_

This diary must never be found. It must be destroyed the moment I can set it down, because I must write this, I must set out the events of yesterday; for myself and myself alone, in my code, concealed and treasured and real.

It began in the morning. Miss Smith returned from her patrol, reported that two vampires had been killed, and retired to bed after breakfast. Mr Wheeler and I were perhaps a little quiet as we ate, I reading the paper and he staring for the most part at his plate.

Once we had both finished eating and Miss Smith had left, Mr Wheeler indicated that he wished to speak to me in the drawing room. He sent the servants out and told the footman that we were not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency. Then he turned to me; I must confess that I was bewildered by the entire proceedings and standing dumb, waiting for his purpose to reveal itself; and he began to speak.

"I have considered your kind offer," he said. I noticed that he was trembling. "I am – profoundly grateful, Mr Ritter, for all you have done for me. Miss Smith – you – you both saved my life, and you have both brought me back to health. I cannot thank you enough. There is not a single thing I can do in this world to repay my debt to you."

I made to speak, but he held up his hand.

"Please," he said, his eyes echoing the word in the look he gave me, "let me speak. I must say this, and if I stop –" He breathed in, a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. "I cannot stay here."

I do not know how I looked, what movement I must have made, what expression must have appeared on my face; I can only guess that it revealed my dismay, and hope that it concealed the depth of it.

He stepped forward, raised his hand as though to touch my cheek. "Tyson – Mr Ritter," he breathed. "I am sorry, I – please, I beg of you, do not cease our friendship, our – it means more to me than I can express, you have been such a good friend. A true friend." He stepped closer and whispered, "A great man."

I swallowed. I could not trust myself to speak. Something different was in the air, something that told me this was not easy for him. That it should have been, but it was not.

"Mr Ritter, please say something."

"I," I tried. My throat was dry; I cleared it. "Come with me."

I still do not know why I said it, yet at that moment I knew exactly what I wished to do. I led him, very carefully and mindful of his cane, outside. He has been outside for short turns in the park to test his leg, but he walked more surely than I had seen him do before. I knew he was as healed as he would become, that it was time for him to leave us. Yet I could not let him go.

We hailed a cab and I gave the driver an address, quietly so that Mr Wheeler wouldn't hear it. The cab took us to where I had specified, and I paid the man.

Mr Wheeler looked around as I did so. We were close to the river. "Why did you bring me here?" he asked.

"Come," I took his arm to steady his steps, feeling a physical jolt at the contact, "we are not there yet."

We walked, slowly, until we came to the river, and then we walked down it a little way. As we came to the bridge, I turned onto it and we walked to the middle. All this in silence.

I stopped. The river was spread out beneath us, the city on either side. I turned to him and I said, "I only wish it were sunset. This is my favourite place in all of London."

"It is mine too," Mr Wheeler brightened, the question still not leaving his face. He gave it voice: "Why did we come here?"

I looked out at the river. "I wanted to show you," I began, slowly; it was difficult to find the right words that did not circle too close to danger. "This place, this river, this city – it is where my heart lies. It is what I fight for, what I train Miss Smith to fight for." I risked a look at him, and my heart all but stopped at the look in his eyes. He was watching me with startled respect, with warm affection, with – dare I say it, did I dare think it then? – love. "I fight for you," I whispered, turning towards him suddenly. "I – for friends like you, for men as good as you are. That is – that is all I meant. You are a good man, Mr Wheeler. I am glad to know you."

The words sounded empty, echoed strangely in the air it seemed, but Mr Wheeler smiled. "I am glad to know _you_, Mr Ritter. So very glad."

There was not any more to say. We stood on the bridge and watched the water for a little while, and then hailed a cab and came back home.

I made up my mind on the bridge, watching the flow of the river in silence with him, to let him go. It was selfish to try and keep him; I would not, in any case, _lose_ him. He would be nearby, we would call on each other and remain friends, he would aid myself and my Slayer when we needed him. I resolved to be content with this, to know that I could never love another person as much as I love Nickolas Wheeler, and to know that I could not have him.

When we arrived home, he took me back into the drawing room, sent the servants away again, and sat next to me.

"Mr Ritter," he began, his voice quiet and hesitant, "we have grown to trust one another, have we not?"

"We have," I answered. He was starting to tremble; I worried that our walk had exerted him too much. "Mr Wheeler, perhaps you should rest. You are shaking."

He closed his eyes and smiled just a little. When he spoke, it was in a whispered rush, "If you do not wish this, it is a product of fever and I am the greatest fool in Christendom. I ask only that you are not – I ask only for forgiveness."

I opened my mouth to ascertain what on earth he could mean, but he covered it with his own.

He kissed me. Hesitantly, gently, oh God I am so glad this is in code. Nobody shall ever read of this, so I am free to admit it.

When he kissed me, it was as though a fire had been lit underneath my skin. I was burning, could not stop myself moving, tangling a hand in his hair, tracing the curve of his neck with my fingertips, kissing him deeply. He made small noises, surprised at first, yet pleased, and then he began to whimper. He was still shaking, his hands plucking at the buttons on my shirt, and he broke away for breath. "Nickolas," I exhaled.

We did things then I only knew the words for. He tastes like sunlight, feels like soft earth, smells like strawberries. We kept as quiet as possible, locked away in my bed, tasting pleasure, reaching Heaven. I am sure that Heaven must be what I felt for a moment, Nickolas's mouth on me, his hands touching everywhere. He arched underneath my fingertips, undulated like the waves, muffled his cries in the pillows. He is beautiful, so beautiful, without his clothes. We explored each other; in time, I know I will learn his curves, become familiar with the sounds he makes, find the ways and the touches that drive him to distraction. That is my objective, and his is to find the same on me. He seems fascinated with the hollow of my knee, the crease where leg meets hip; everywhere he touches, I am aflame.

This diary cannot be found. He will stay here, as our companion, as Miss Smith's doctor and as my friend. None but the two of us will know that he sleeps here with me. My deepest wish has been granted; I thank God for it, and serve Him as well as I can. I train my Slayer, I help her when she needs me, and I care for my Nickolas.

I need nothing more in this world.

This diary now ends, and I must prepare a space and burn it.


End file.
